A White Blank Page and a Swelling Rage
by SheShouldHaveBeenaSon
Summary: The carefree world of Vince Noir is turned upside down after he discovers the startling extent of Howard Moon's self-destructive habits. Drama & dark humor abound. Vince/Howard.
1. Don't Empathize With the Young at Heart

**A/N: This is my first Boosh fic, so reviews (and just readings in general) would be fantastic. Anyway, as the title of FANfiction implies, I don't own this show.  
><strong>**  
>Also, the title of the story is taken from the gorgeous Mumford &amp; Sons song, 'White Blank Page.'<br>And the title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Casper' by Roz Raskin & the Rice Cakes.  
>I don't own either song or band. <strong>

ONE

Don't Empathize With the Young at Heart

Vince Noir sat idly in his chair by the window, his unofficial- and uneventful- post in the Nabootique, lackadaisically thumbing through the latest issue of _Cheekbone_. He didn't even bother to look at the print, for his albeit limited focus was intently on something else in the room: his longtime friend and co-worker, Howard Moon. The tall, self-proclaimed jazz maverick was perched where he usually was: behind the front counter, his right pen-bearing hand doing the dance of the writer, hurriedly skidding across and stopping abruptly over a single sheet of paper. Vince smiled warmly. As a team, they'd accomplished the most impressive and unpredictable of feats. They'd escaped the clutches a of hermaphroditic merman; they'd beaten a sociopathic, deformed Cockney with an eel obsession and an unnerving proclivity for hose-like urination; they'd faced death and even execution on all kinds of continents and planets and returned back virtually unscathed. But in the face of the unpredictability of their lives, Vince could always count on Howard being there at that shop counter a few feet away from his chair, poring over words that'd undoubtedly bore the living hell out of the younger man, and that comforted him.

"Hey, Howard?" Vince asked, breaking a silence that had enveloped them for at least the past forty-five minutes. He hadn't expected a reply, and smiled at the fact that his expectations had been met. When Howard was busy with something, he became absorbed and tried his hardest to block out any interferences… which, most of the time, came in the form of Vincent Noir. Undaunted, he tried again. "Howard?" He'd made progress this time; he saw his older friend flinch, as if Vince was literally chipping away at his concentration with a pick-ax. "Hoooooooward? Howard… Howard… Howard?"

The face of the man in question shot up from his paper, immense annoyance showing as clearly as his trademark mustache. "I swear to God, this better be vitally important…"

"How come I've never met a cartoon character?"

Howard slammed his pen down on the counter and exasperatedly cradled his face within his hands. "…You interrupted me for _that_? I've finally gotten into the rhythm of the words, I was on a roll, one with the English language… and you break me out of my literary trance to ask about cartoon characters?"

"Yeah!" cried Vince, not understanding Howard's incredulity. "I mean, there's clearly a lot of them, they're on the telly every morning, but I never see any out on the streets or anythin'. Where do they all live?"

"Don't ever speak to me again for the rest of our lives. And beyond. When we're dead and floating around as spirits, I don't even want you to talk to me then. Just let me write."

Vince chuckled at his friend's familiar verbal sign of irritation. He tried to oblige to Howard's wishes this time- he really did- but as soon as he saw that pen flutter determinedly along the blue lines of the paper, his curiosity beat out his respect. "What are you writing?" he asked.

"You wouldn't be interested, Vince," Howard replied, his eyes not leaving his work.

"Oh come on, try me!"

Sighing, Howard released his grip on the pen once more and looked up at his friend. "Alright. I'm writing an entry for a contest be-"

"A contest?" interrupted Vince, getting up from his seat and walking to where Howard stood. "No way, Howard. You've never finished a single thing you've ever tried to write!"

Howard looked physically wounded by the accusation. "How dare you, sir? I'm an avid writer! You can't keep me away from the written word. If you try, I re-capture it, eat it and spit it out in the form of art."

"Like that romantic poetry you always tried to write back at the zoo?" laughed Vince.

"Yes, exactly like that! If Mrs. Gideon had ever heard those sparkling stanzas, it'd be a very different life for Howard T.J. Moon, you can assure yourself."

"You mean you'd have been sent to the loony bin?"

For the second time, Howard asked in disbelief, "How dare you, sir?"

"Well, come on, now! You'd go on these strange, obsessive rants about her at the most unromantic of times, and always from a distance! It was well creepy, Howard, you were pretty much a stalker! And you always compared her features to dairy products… what was that all about?"

"That's my style! Unconventional, maybe, but it's revolutionary!" Howard thought a moment before adding, "And if they were powerful enough to infiltrate that thick head of yours to the point where you remember them three years later, then I'd go as far as proclaiming myself a poet laureate."

"A poet **what**?" Vince asked. This is why Howard never thought that Vince paid any attention when he spoke. He was always throwing out big words and conversational topics that far surpassed his own level of intelligence, and he'd wind up being too confused to keep listening. His single brain cell would tune the Northerner's voice out as quickly as he would a jazz station on a satellite radio upon hearing a word like _laureate_. Yet Howard's poetry- as confusing and creepy as it may have been at the time- was something Vince was never able to ignore. Not because it was by any means beautiful, but because he completely related to its messages of unrequited love and rejected affection. He knew how it felt to love someone so fully that it hurt, and to have that same person speak with condescending ignorance whenever the chance arose to make a positive impression. His poetry resonated with Vince as much as it bewildered him, and it was laden with a bitter irony that he knew Howard didn't quite grasp.

"Never mind," Howard dismissed.

Vince looked down at his Chelsea boots in embarrassment. It's not like it was his fault he was a simpleton, as Howard so often accused him of being. "So let's have it; what's this contest?" he asked, intentionally shifting the topic back into focus.

"The challenge is to write the best possible journalistic monologue. The winner will have their entry read by Jurgen Haabermaaster in his upcoming 7-part documentary on suic-"

Artfully dodging Howard's barrage of intellectual vocabulary, Vince interrupted by commenting on the one thing he understood: "No, Howard, not that guy again! Last time you tried to win something with Jurgen Häagen Dazs, you wound up dressed as a gassy crab."

"Jurgen **Haabermaaster**," Howard corrected, and not for the first time.

"Yeah, whatever. That was embarrassin', Howard! Why do you want to work with him again?" Vince asked, full of clandestine concern.

"Because, Vince," Howard began, very matter-of-factly, "Jurgen Haabermaaster is a cinematic vanguard. This piece that I'm writing for his contest is powerful! It'll blow his mind, move his soul! And when he sees me again, I'm sure he'll remember the stint with the crab, yes sir, but he'll also see the brooding, poetic side of me that will instantaneously grab his respect. We're a lot alike, Jurgen and I, and he's gonna notice that with this piece."

Vince rolled his eyes but couldn't quite mask a smile at how delusional his friend could be. "'Jurgen and I'… Are you two old mates?" When that sardonic comment earned him no response, he prompted, "So when am I gonna get to read this masterpiece?"

"Today's Friday, right?"

Vince nodded, a gleam of excitement in his sparkling blue eyes.

Howard feigned contemplating the days of the week before saying "Well, never."

"What do you mean 'never'?"

"I mean never! Whenever I do something I have the faintest bit of confidence in, people like you or Fossil or even Bollo tear it all down! I can't have it with this, no sir!"

"Awww, come on, Howard. That isn't true!" Howard shot him one of his patronizing looks, dripping with unspoken sarcasm, causing Vince to re-think and retract his protest. "Alright, maybe Bollo and Fossil. But what do they know about good writing? Bollo's an ape! And Fossil… well, he won't read anything that doesn't feature Charlie, yeah?"

Howard rolled his eyes. "Anything that isn't written by his precious Vincey, you mean?"

Vince smiled for a brief moment, unwittingly beaming with a strange pride, before turning back to the matter at hand. "Well… yeah. But it's me, Howard! You can trust me with this! I promise not to say anything too critical."

The older man honestly **did** want an opinion on his piece… but he didn't want to lower himself to accepting Vince's good-natured promise. "Sorry, Vince. Now can you let me finish?"

Vince sighed and childishly stuck his tongue out at the frustrated writer. When he'd turned back to his contest entry, the glam rocker began to stride about the room in grandiose, fluid movements, trying to gain the attention of his lugubrious-looking co-worker. He waved his hands, pulling shapes in a debonair way that would have seemed idiotic coming from anyone else, but gave up with a diva-like pout when Howard wouldn't so much as glance up. Vince had never seen him so engrossed in a task before. Whatever he was writing must have been incredibly important, and he felt more than a bit put off that he didn't trust him enough to let him read it. Sinking back into his chair by the window, he retrieved his issue of _Cheekbone_, already falling victim to the old, unwelcome boredom. "Howard?" No reply. No surprise.

He looked up at the clock; they hadn't long before they'd be closing the shop down for the day, and judging by the fact that Howard had put down his pen and begun reading what he'd been working on, he hadn't long before he was through with his task. With a wry smirk, Vince looked down at his magazine. That particular issue would go out of print in another hour, he reasoned, and it wasn't as if any of the features had caught his interest in the first place, so he eagerly ripped out a few pages, crumpled them up, and began tossing them at Howard. Surely this would earn him a reaction.

No, Vince soon learned, it wouldn't. Setting aside all tact, Vince hurled the entire magazine at him. Or at least he thought he had. His aggravation at being ignored quickly escalated to unmitigated horror and remorse as a sharp pain stabbed at his wrist, causing the magazine to veer far off course and strike Howard's beloved Stationery Village.

This certainly gained him a reaction. The man behind the counter let his pen and paper fall as he stared in dismay at the hectic scene in front of him. Paper clips, writing utensils, sellotape, staples and all of Howard's meticulously organized pieces of stationery were strewn about helter-skelter, a sight that made him feel sick.

Blue eyes open wider than seemed physically possible, hands covering his gaping mouth, Vince Noir cautiously paced over to where Howard stood. He swallowed hard, trying to think of just what to say, and wished he could be as verbally gifted as the man in front of him. "H-Howard," he finally managed to choke out. "I'm **so **sorry. I swear, I didn't mean for it to-"

"Please don't speak to me," Howard interrupted, not bearing to tear his diminutive eyes away from the haphazard pile of stationery.

"I didn't mean for that to happen, Howard, I promise! I know how much organization means to you, and I just wanted some attention; I was really bored! I'll put it all back, I swear!"

"Everything you do is for attention, innit? Like the time you destroyed my jazz record for a few laughs with all your little punk mates? Or the time you left me to be assailed by that…" Howard shuddered, and then continued, "Eleanor… just so you could run off and tag an elusive little pop star? You've no respect for people's boundaries, Vince, you never have!"

Vince placed what was meant to be a comforting hand on Howard's shoulder, shaken with sudden guilt. So he hadn't always been the greatest possible friend to him, but he'd always tried his best! He was just easily distracted. Surely Howard knew how much he meant to him. How much he loved him.

"Don't touch me!" the older man exclaimed, shrinking away from the touch as if it burned. Vince flinched. He hadn't heard that little outburst in a while. So they were back to this. The emotional walls that Vince had worked so hard to tear down were back up. Pangs of guilt deluged his naïve mind as he realized that with his long résumé of inadvertent betrayals, this was long overdue.

"Howard, please-"

"Don't talk to me! Don't touch me, don't look at me… I need a walk. A long, relaxing walk. Look after the shop. I don't know when I'll be back. Just… don't look at me." With that shaky declaration, Vince watched, heart breaking, as Howard stormed out the door. He knew protesting wouldn't make him stay. And he had every right to be upset. The man was just trying to write, for Jagger's sake, and he had to go and screw everything up, like he always did.

"And what **was **he writing?" Vince wondered aloud, picking up the forgotten piece of paper that had floated to the floor. He glanced over toward what used to be Stationery Village, and his moral side yelled at him to ignore the paper and make it up to Howard. _You've mucked it up enough today, ya berk. He didn't want anyone but the Häagen Dazs man reading this. _But the other side of him- the much bigger side of him- screamed to do otherwise, and that's what inevitably won out. Cautiously looking around to make sure he was really alone, Vince held the paper in his hands, knowing that he shouldn't, but being too curious to care. One sentence in, he wished he had never picked the bloody thing up.


	2. The Rusted Signs We Ignore Throughout Ou

**A/N: A *massive* thank you to all those who've reviewed and subscribed! This chapter isn't really eventful, per se, but it's important nonetheless.  
>Warnings for brief language and blatant references to self-harm.<strong>

**Title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Thumbing My Way' by Pearl Jam.**

TWO

The Rusted Signs We Ignore Throughout Our Lives, Choosing the Shiny Ones Instead

Howard couldn't have written this. No way. Vince refused to believe that Howard could have written something so drenched in agony, so drenched in self-loathing. Sure, he'd seen him in the halls, giving himself an occasional Chinese burn, but that had to have been the extent of any self-destructive thoughts from his best friend. …Right? The text in front of him- what little he could make out, anyway- was the inner workings of a man in insurmountable pain. Vince cringed. The Sunshine Kid's natural optimism was shattering into disquietude as he read.

_"The topic of suicide is one that often vexes and frightens people," _began the contest entry._ "Most shy away from the subject manner, or vehemently cry that suicide is immoral and thoughtless, that no one could ever have a justified reason for unhappiness so extreme that a life should end for it. The majority of people share this opinion, but the majority of people have never lived through the self-deprecating circles of agony in the earthly hell that suicidal souls are forced to reside in."_

Vince was confused by the vocabulary, but, along with being undoubtedly impressed by his friend's hidden talents, could follow the general message of what he was reading. For once, his brain didn't register confusion as something to tune out from. He had to keep reading.

_"Every day on this planet greets me with infinite misery. I'm always pushed to the sidelines. Ever since I can remember, I've been knocked down by the only people foolish enough to take notice of my existence. Whether it was my critical, manipulative parents or my neurotically dismissive and cruel ex-boss or my impeccable and cheerful but simple-minded flat-mate, I'm pushed out of any form of light and forced to wither. Everyone always wonders about my true age. The stress and isolation of 32 years of living in emotional exile has wizened me beyond any recognition of my surprising youth."_

Vince felt sick. Impeccable? He wasn't sure what that meant. Cheerful and simple-minded? Well, yeah, that was undeniably him. But **flat-mate**? Was that all he was to him? Just someone who happened to share a room? Then again, what Howard had written here was true. He couldn't speak on behalf of Mr. and Mrs. Moon or Bob Fossil, but he knew he'd stolen more than Howard's fair share of the spotlight. In fact, any chance that Howard had to make something of himself, Vince had- sometimes unknowingly- purloined said opportunity. He shivered at the revelation, but made himself continue.

_"When the world is full of these sanctimonious, insensitive cretins, how can one regain the hope they've lost? When constant vituperative judgment is (sometimes unwittingly) placed upon their emotional desires, how can they ever dream of being accepted? This subject needs to be admittedly not fully understandable by those outside of it. People lucky enough to have never experienced the magnet of suicide should never pretend to have all the answers about it. If the topic were addressed with sympathy, support and helpfulness, then the world would be a much more welcoming place for the victims." _

"No, Howard!" Vince found himself shouting at the entry.

_"Along the same lines, the act of suicide is almost always labeled as selfish, thoughtless, or as 'a permanent solution to a temporary problem'. It isn't any of those things. The victim spends every minute of every day thinking about it; the method, the time, the place, the note. Every stipulation is meticulously planned and thought over- in most cases- and is definitely not an act of thoughtlessness. Calling the causes of the deed a 'temporary problem' is far from entirely accurate. Not everybody who commits suicide does so because of recent life tragedies; it can be from a lifetime of misery that one cannot perceive to improve. The victim becomes so overwhelmed that the only reality is the reality of their immense suffering and depression."_

Tears began to glimmer in Vince's usually blissful eyes. Howard couldn't have written this. No, he couldn't have. He remembered one time at the zoo, when Howard had impressed him with a poem he'd claimed to have written about the lure of bells… but it turned out that some Edgar Winter Poe character had been the actual poet behind the words. Howard had to have just copied someone else's thoughts on the subject. Yeah, that was it. This wasn't coming from his best friend. It didn't even sound like him! Where were all the 'sirs' and threats to come atcha? Where was the jazzy lingo and mentions of _Weather Report _and John Cold-Train or whatever his name was?

_"They see no way out," _continued the paper,_ "they have no hope for the future, and they become detached with any other reality but their own unbearable one; through this illusion, they become incapable of seeing that anyone cares for them, or, if that isn't the case, that their depression has made them a liability to anyone who cares, and that it would be an act of kindness to relieve them of that burden. The previously mentioned flat-mate is a good example in my particular case."_

Vince couldn't seem to rid himself of the lump gathering in his throat. He couldn't read the rest of this. Whatever it said, he didn't want to know. …But he **needed **to know.

_"He's always there. As much as he obliviously effaces any semblance of self-worth left in me every day, he's the best friend I've ever known. He laughed in my face when I gathered enough courage to tell him I love him, but he's always the one showing signs of love and affection, signs that I'm too broken to ever hope to requite."_

Requite? He grabbed Howard's near-by dictionary and struggled to look up the unfamiliar word, and was sorrowfully satisfied to learn of its meaning.

_"I have no doubt that his sunshiny presence is dulled by my anal, utilitarian approach to things. His gift of optimism is canceled out by my curse of pessimism. His child-like innocence is scorned jealously by my cerebral mind. What kind of oppression have I laid upon him? The only person who's ever treated me with kindness is rewarded with cold-heartedness. Even as I jot down my opinions on this act, he's calling out my name a mere few feet in front of me, trying to gain my worthless attention. He would miss me if I succumbed to these cravings. I know this. But it wouldn't last. He's a resilient spirit, and his life would drastically improve as a result of my absence."_

"No!" screamed Vince, outraged. "How can you be so fuckin' stupid, Howard?" He couldn't read any more of it. For the first time he could remember, he let himself fall on the floor in fits of hysterical sobs.


	3. How Could You Say That I Never Needed Yo

**A/N: Again, thank you to all reviewers and subscribers; your feedback means a hell of a lot!  
>And now I'll apologize, as this is another mainly psychological chapter. Things'll pick themselves up again very soon, I assure you.<strong>

**Chapter title is from the masterpiece that is 'Estranged' by Guns N' Roses. I don't own them. (So Axl can't hurt me.)**

THREE

How Could You Say That I Never Needed You?

Vince Noir sat hugging his knees behind the counter- Howard's counter- miserably staring at the piece of paper that had once again fallen to the floor. Did that jazzy freak honestly think that he'd be better off without him? He knew he'd messed up that time in the tundra, when Howard had laid his heart on the line. But what did he expect? Vince didn't know how to handle things like that, and he **did **wind up… what was the word again… requiting the love. Howard just hadn't believed him by that point.

Uncharacteristic tears continued to cascade down his defined cheeks as he looked once more at Howard's beloved Stationery Village, which lay in the shambles he'd reduced it to. That was typical, though, wasn't it? Like Howard had said… anything he'd had the faintest bit of confidence in, people like Vince had to tear down.

He didn't mean to, he kept assuring himself. It's just that the delusional old sod was really quite dense for someone so intelligent. All those loving, longing glances shot across rooms… all those feeble attempts at physical contact… all those years of following him around, from school to the zoo to the boutique… all those sparks that flew between their all-too-eager make-out session on the roof that night… how could Howard **not** see the meaning behind them? They extended far beyond anything on the platonic scale. He loved Howard. Loved him with all his heart. He'd realized that a long time ago, and once he'd learned to look beyond its initial strange feeling, he'd accepted it and warmly embraced it as an intrinsic part of himself. Vince Noir loved Howard Moon. And at this moment he wanted to scream it from the very highest elevated point in all of the United Kingdom.

He laughed dolorously as he thought of what Howard would say in response to a declaration of his all-consuming love. "Erm… so… you really **are** a poof, then?" Or maybe a "stop joking around, Little Man, and hand me that note-pad." The most feasible reply would be complete and utter silence, and that's what terrified Vince to the point of decimating any chance of having his feelings known. _"Besides," _he had consoled himself time and time again, _"it's not like Howard'll ever land himself a serious girlfriend. I'm all he's got! We'll keep moving about together, and everyone assumes I'm his wife or that we're bumming anyway, so it's kind of like we're married. That's enough for me." _Only it wasn't. And now it was known to him that Howard contemplated committing suicide. Wasn't Vince good enough to save him from himself?

Picking himself up from his lowly state on the shop floor, Vince decided it was time to close the Nabootique. Its owner was out with his familiar on another infamous shaman's stag weekend, so no one would really mind or notice if it closed down a few minutes early. It wasn't as if the customers were exactly clambering over themselves to get in.

After taking close-down precautions that would've made Howard proud, Vince walked over to the counter where Stationery Village had once stood in all its obsessive-compulsive glory. Was that really all that had caused this? Knocked down stationery? Sighing, Vince knew he couldn't let his hyper-organized best friend return to disarray. He was artistically talented, and this endowment made him sure that he could resurrect the Village to a perfection that went even beyond its previous state.


	4. He's Got Pretty Persuasion

**A/N: Warnings: Brief language. And some fairly explicit imaginary slash. If you're offended, you may want to skip a paragraph or two in the middle. **

**Chapter title's from the song 'Pretty Persuasion' by the wonderful R.E.M.**

FOUR

He's Got Pretty Persuasion

Vince had settled himself in on the living room couch for a power-nap after completing the renovations on Stationery Village. It'd been over four hours since Howard had made his bitter departure, and he was worried sick. His companion wasn't one to meander around the city at night alone, and he knew what kind of luck he was susceptible to. But Howard had left his phone behind, and instead of driving himself mad with all the predicaments his friend could've gotten himself into, he decided to sleep it off.

He hadn't realized how tired he'd been until he was stirred from his slumber by distant scat singing. For once, he wasn't repulsed by the sound. "Howard?" he cried, falling off the couch in his drowsy stupor. He collected himself and followed the singing to its source: the bathroom.

"Howard?" asked Vince, as he knocked on the bathroom door. He wanted to go in there and yell at Howard for being so fucking clueless. He wanted to scream at him for wanting to condemn them to eternal separation. He wanted to ask him how he could've trusted the crab man with his deep thoughts while concealing them from him. More than anything, he wanted to shout at him about how much he needed him on this earth.

The scatting continued, uninterrupted. He hadn't been heard.

"Howard?" he tried again. "Come on, Howard, listen to me. I know it's you in there."

The scatting seemed to have increased its volume. Maybe he **had** been heard.

"Howard, answer me! I'm comin' in there if you don't. We need to talk."

This stopped the scatting, but earned the sensation of the doorknob juddering and clicking, a sign of it being locked. Vince stared at the handle in disbelief. "Oh, come on, Howard! I'll break this door down if I have to!"

He thought he heard a small laugh before the scat singing started up again. If he had, he couldn't blame Howard for doing so. Vince couldn't break down a door. Bollo had been right when he'd called him a precious flower.

He frowned and stood in thought for a while, running his frustrated hand through his hair, temporarily abandoning any fear of messing it up. As he realized his mistake, he arranged it back into its usual faultless state, causing more than one bobby pin to fall loose. Eying the hair accessories with a new interest, Vince picked one of them up and glanced curiously at the door. Straightening the flexible piece of metal, he jabbed it into the small hole on the left side of the knob. A soft click was his reward and he wasted no time in reaping its benefits.

Forgetting the intended privacy of a bathroom, he pushed open the door to be greeted by a startled yelp from its other occupant, who was attempting to take a relaxing bath.

Vince laughed at what was in front of him. Howard must've jumped ten feet into the air as a result of his sudden arrival, and then he'd settled, unnerved, back into his previous position in the tub.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" cried Howard, trying his best to cover any parts of his anatomy that he didn't feel like sharing with Vince. Aside from the sparsely littered bubbles on the surface of the water, he was completely uncovered, and that fact was becoming far too apparent.

"I told you I'd be coming in, Howard," Vince laughed. His original plan to confront him about the paper was crumbling.

"I didn't think you actually would!" he exclaimed, his habit of speaking with his hands taking over at the worst possible time. This momentary lapse of Howard's defense was not lost on the younger man as he continued to rave about the value of boundaries and privacy.

Vince cocked his head, subconsciously tuning his voice out and no longer finding humor in the ridiculous situation they were in. In fact, what was in front of him was decidedly **un**funny. What was in front of him was the most beautiful thing he'd ever had the privilege of seeing. (And that was including his own reflection, he noted.) How could someone so perfect have an opinion so low of himself that he saw no reparation other than his own demise? How could someone so painfully, devastatingly beautiful live a life so out casted by the opposite sex and mainstream society in general? How could no one but him appreciate all of his wit, his charm, his awkward but endearing demeanor?

Vince stared at his friend as if seeing him for the first time, letting himself fill with the physical desires he'd been forced to repress all these years. Oh, God, it could be so perfect, so effortless, so easy… As Howard continued to drone on, Vince began to play a little movie in his head of what he would do when he stopped talking. With no verbal reply, he'd slowly strip out of his clothes. He'd discard his treasured garments on the wet tiled floor, a sure-fire sign of how much he wanted this, and would silently and nonchalantly join Howard in the warm water. Howard would be undoubtedly confused and more than likely disturbed. Too confused and disturbed to say anything. But then again, words wouldn't be needed on his part for what Vince intended to do. He'd cautiously lower his bare, lean body onto the other man's and bestow sloppy yet loving kisses upon his unmoving jaw-line, and then move his mouth up to his ear. _"I love you, Howard…"_ he'd whisper sensually. Vince would be able to feel his best friend's body tense at the affection, and he'd kiss him on the cheek reassuringly before returning to the ear. _"I need you, Howard…"_ he'd say, with a bit more urgency. He'd give him a swift kiss on his slack lips and then press his mouth up against his ear for a final time. _"I want you, Howard…"_ he'd practically moan, grinding himself into the older man. This would set Howard off, and the two would engage in a rough, passionate kiss, one that completely released all the years of unspoken adulation. Vince would run his hands through the fine hair of his then-lover, the fine hair that he secretly adored, and he'd let Howard do the same to his thick mane. Another sure-fire sign of how much he wanted this. When they'd be able to pry their lips away, Vince would smile with the perfect amount of lust, love and trust before moving his trembling hands to-

"Vince!"

"Huh?" he asked, snapping back into reality, much too aware of how tight his jeans were.

"Are you listening to me?"

Vince blushed vigorously and turned his face away from Howard, biting down hard on his lower lip in a futile attempt to release his tension. Seeing this, Howard realized he'd let himself become exposed again, and thrust his hands down to cover up the body part in question. Blushing too, Howard cleared his throat and suggested, "Okay, so we can both forget about all this, alright?"

An unexpected wave of disappointment hit Vince. He didn't want to forget what he'd seen. He didn't want to forget his fantasy. But Howard genuinely hadn't wanted Vince to see him like that, and it hurt him more than he cared to admit. Instead of complying with the request, Vince finally said, "I have something to show you."

Howard looked around the small room frantically, and, attempting to add a bit of levity to the tense mood of the evening, said in his own awkward way, "Well, sir, it better not be what I've just shown you." When that attempt only earned him what seemed to be a sympathetic glance, he sighed and said, "Alright, Vince, I'll be out in a bit. Just let me get… presentable."

'_Presentable?' _Vince thought. Never in his life had Howard Moon looked as presentable as he did at that moment. But he repressed this thought, as he was so used to doing by now, and pasted on his familiar cheeky grin. "Alright!" he said before exiting.

When he'd closed the door behind him, Vince leaned up against it in frustration that bordered on pain. There was no way his jeans had been **that **tight when he'd put them on that morning. Tightly closing his eyes, he wondered if "a bit" gave him enough time to steal away and relieve himself.

He reluctantly decided against it.


	5. Truth Covered in Security

**A/N: Seriously, you reviewers kick ass. Gigantic thanks all around!  
><strong>  
><strong>Chapter title comes from the song 'Lounge Act' by the greatest band ever, Nirvana.<strong>

FIVE

Truth Covered In Security

"So, what is it you have to show me?" Howard asked in a somewhat flustered tone as he emerged from the bathroom.

Vince smiled broadly at him. "Follow me!" he prompted, leading him down the stairs to the shop.

"Look, Vince, if you couldn't figure out how to secure the register again, it's alright. You remembered to lock the doors this time."

"Well… then I have two things to show you. You didn't look around much when you walked in here, did you?"

Reaching the first floor, Howard shook his head. He hadn't felt like being reminded of Vince's fits of negligence after he'd just cleared his head.

Vince rolled his eyes. "Well… go on, then!" he said, gesturing toward Stationery Village. Howard looked at him warily, but walked to where he was guided. His mouth fell open at what he saw, becoming genuinely speechless for the first time he could remember. "Do you like it? It's a little different than what you had goin' on, and I can change it back if you want, but I thought that you'd-"

Howard stopped his speech when he looked at him with a real, human smile spread across his usually morose face. Vince was taken aback. When Howard smiled, it was an unnatural occurrence, and he usually just wound up looking like some kind of rapist. But this smile… this smile was authentic. He didn't look like a rapist at all. He looked positively gorgeous, the gesture of happiness brightening his face and making him look much closer to his actual age.

What they were looking at was an example of Vince's child-like antics being put to lucrative use. Equipped with nothing but some children's toys, Vince had turned Stationery Village into what looked like… well, a bona fide village. The sellotape tree, a structure that had been constructed from Lincoln Logs, modeling clay and wires, stood proudly dispensing adhesives with a new dignified and natural aura. The Blue Tack Garden had been turned into a zen garden with the help of some sand and small stones. The paper clips were held in their rightful place in Paper Clip Castle, a royal, complex building made from Legos. Also made from the plastic building blocks was a new addition to the Village: a clock tower that, with the aid of Vince's old Mickey Mouse watch, told the time and, in a door beneath its face, housed all of the pen-people. But what touched Howard more than anything else wasn't the structures or the fact that Vince had been able to recall the order in which they were placed. It was a toy police car, and what was inside of it.

Vince noticed him staring at the car, and picked it up to show him. "This bit is well genius," he narrated, as he extracted two Lego figurines from the small vehicle. "See, this is you, the authority of Stationery Village!" he excitedly said. "I had to paint over his shirt and make it brown. And I had to paint a little mustache on him. And I used a bit of yellow to make his eyes look smaller. But I'm rather proud of it, I think! Do you like him?"

Howard continued smiling. "Vince, this is-"

"Oh, and here!" He offered him the other figurine, one that was quite obviously intended to be a female. "I painted over her lips a bit to make her a little more masculine, but I didn't fret over that too much. Anyway, I just glued some sequins to her body, and that's me!"

Laughing, Howard had to admit that the resemblance between them and their Lego counterparts was pretty uncanny.

"Here, take her! Er… him…" Vince corrected himself, holding his plastic doppelganger out to Howard. "See, you can't separate them, yeah? Not even a little. I mean, she may not be as important to Stationery Village as the actual authority, but she's his partner. They're a team. And she's always going to be by his side. No matter how tough things get. …Organization wise."

Howard took Lego Vince and placed her back in the passenger's seat of the police car, along with his own figurine in the driver's seat. "Alright, Little Man. I'll remember that," he agreed, sounding incredibly moved.

Vince's smile only grew wider at the affectionate nickname. "So you don't mind that I changed it all 'round?"

"Not at all!" replied Howard. "Look at this place… this is more than Stationery Village, sir. This is Stationery Kingdom!"

Amused, Vince asked, "Does that make you the king?"

Turning his attention to the Kingdom to play with the toy car- something he'd always criticized Vince for doing- he absentmindedly answered, "As much as it makes you the queen!"

Vince was glad Howard's back was to him, because he was certain he'd turned the brightest shade of red in the entire spectrum. "Alright, then, so we're royalty!"

Turning back to his best friend, the older man said, "Now if only you could find a Lego gorilla and a Lego shaman. Then we'd have ourselves some subjects."

"Actually, I could probably make those!"

Howard laughed amiably and looked as if he were going to put his arms around Vince, but then thought better of it. As his bright smile slowly faded, he said, "Vince? Thank you for… for fixing this. I really appreciate it."

Vince was more than content. He'd never seen Howard so at peace, so in his element. He could've watched him playing with that little police car all night long. "Don't mention it, Small Eyes."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So this was another fairly calm chapter. I doubt that pattern will continue.**


	6. Someone's Gonna Rescue You

**A/N: No warnings, except for the risky fact that there's an original crimp in here.**

**Chapter title's the name of a brilliant Neil Young song. **

SIX

Someone's Gonna Rescue You

The following morning had to go just right. If Vince didn't have enough tenacity and confidence to confront Howard, then maybe random acts of kindness, like his revamping of Stationery Village, could help remind him that someone **did** care and hopefully help to ease him out of his depression. Howard's reaction the previous night had been one of true happiness, and if Vince could ignite that in him every day, he had to see just what he meant to him. He had no idea what an unceremonious transition it would be to turn from a gamboling, insouciant best friend to a loving, cautious caretaker.

Nothing was harder for Vince Noir than gaining the strength to roll out of bed at a decent time, but, he thought, it had to be done. That morning, for the first time in ages, he'd woken up before Howard… and he immediately hated the feeling. It was abnormal… unnatural even. It was as if the balance of the universe had toppled over. But a glance over to his friend's sleeping form gave him the motivation to get up and ready for the day. _Acts of kindness, Vince… Come on… you can surprise him with __**something**__…_

The one thing he knew was that he desperately needed caffeine. Man was not made to rise before the sun had fully done the same. Wrapping himself in his spangled, purple robe, he trudged into the kitchen and smiled at how adult he felt, waking himself up, making his own coffee. It wasn't exactly fun, but it was rewarding nonetheless.

Looking around the unnervingly silent room while his pot brewed, he decided to put more confidence in his trifling feelings of responsibility. Cooking them breakfast could be an act of kindness. The oven was an enigmatic, foreign beast to Vince, but come on… he was making his own coffee, for the love of Numan, what **couldn't **he do? Besides, cooking was basically just following instructions on the back of a box. That didn't seem too difficult.

He was wrong. When he tried his coffee, the overly-dominant bitterness caused him to immediately spit the beverage out. How could he have screwed that up? You put in some water, some coffee beans, press a few buttons… if Bollo could do it, why couldn't he? As Vince sat staring with contempt at the appliance that had betrayed him, smoke began to billow from the frying pan that he had been cooking pancakes on. He shot up from his chair at the kitchen table and, panicking, swatted at the smoke with a dish towel, trying to prevent the alarm from going off.

It wouldn't have made a difference if it had, as Howard came barreling out of their room, his man-of-action senses in high gear. "Vince?" he cried, his eyes darting around the hazy room even more than usual. "Vince, what's going on? I smell smoke; is there a fire? Are you okay?"

Vince rolled his eyes. "Everything's fine, Howard. I'm just making breakfast."

Letting out a relieved sigh, Howard muttered, "so there **is** a fire," before walking to the oven and turning off the stovetop. "You had the flame up way too high, Vince. That's dangerous! Don't try this again without supervision, alright?" Receiving another eye roll, Howard let the situation sink in. "It's well before noon. What are you doing up?"

"Relax, Frances the Firefly, I was just knockin' up some breakfast!"

"Have you knocked a few screws loose up there?" Howard asked, pointing to his head.

Although he knew it was true, Vince was a little offended by the accusations. "No, I haven't! I was just tryin' to do somethin' nice for us, yeah?"

Howard's eyes narrowed suspiciously until they were virtually invisible. "Us?"

"Yeah, as in you and me."

"Are you dying, Vince?"

Vince laughed, but when he absorbed the words, he killed the laughing as quickly as Howard had killed the stove's flame. "No! And no one's gonna die, yeah? Not me, and definitely not you. We're gonna be here, both of us, for a long while. And we're gonna stick together and eat pancakes that I've learned how to properly cook and we'll get on in our years and no one's gonna die!"

In complete reverse, Howard's eyes began to widen. "Um… are you sure you're okay, Little Man?"

"I'm fine! Now get your anus to the table because I'm gonna make you some flapjacks!"

Feeling violated by breakfast, Howard sat down at the table as Vince tossed out the black, crispy batter on the frying pan and tried again.

"What's all this?" the older man asked, gesturing to what lay spread out before him on the table's surface.

"Toppings!" Vince replied cheerfully. "I got really creative, but look at all the sweets you can try 'em with! It can be sour, it can be sweet, it can be minty, it can even be musty! Candied pancakes, imagine that…"

Howard stared, appalled, at his friend's juvenile palate. "Well… I think I'll stick with this, then," he announced, gesturing toward a can of whipped cream, the only thing laid out that he recognized as being edible for someone over the age of seven.

Vince seemed to laugh. "I kinda knew you'd say that."

"Vince! Loud sizzling means it's time to flip."

"Oh, right!" He grabbed a spatula and flipped the pancake over, narrowly avoiding a re-run of the last cooking episode. "Hey, Howard?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember the last time we had that whipped cream?"

Howard smiled and let out a small laugh before saying, "Of course I do!"

Before they knew it, the two were crimping away, their _a capella_ rap taking them back to the previous time they'd shared the topping. _"Whipped, whipped, whipped, whipped cream! Comin' out the nozzle in a beaten, white dream! Fluffy, cool and sweet, no confection can compete, with whipped, whipped, whipped, whipped cream!"_

Abruptly switching off his laughter from the memory, Howard's over protectiveness took over again. "Vince, don't lean your robe into the flame!"

"Huh?" He confusedly looked himself over before feeling intense heat traipsing its way along his sleeve. He let out a feminine shriek, threw the garment off, kicked it to the other side of the room, and scurried defensively behind Howard, as if the robe were possessed.

"Vince?"

"Yeah?"

"It's smoking again."

Blue eyes shooting wide open, Vince ran to the stove and mimicked what he'd seen Howard do the quell the fire. Panting, he leaned up against the counter. "Alright!" he said, admitting defeat. "So cooking's not so easy."

Howard smiled with his typical half-hearted smile. "It's the thought that counts, Little Man."

"Yeah, I guess…"

"I'll go 'round to the diner down the street and pick us up somethin'," Howard declared, standing up.

"No!" the other man cried, basically pushing him back into his seat. "Let me, yeah? I screwed it up, so I'll go out."

Howard eyed him doubtfully. "Okay… but Vince?"

"Yeah?"

"Please don't order me flapjacks coated in clove rocks."

Vince beamed at the idea. "Alright! 'S your loss."

* * *

><p>Vince laughed to himself as he made the return trip to the boutique. Pancakes covered in clove rocks… it'd be genius. That was one of the many great things about Howard. Even when he was being completely sarcastic, he was brilliant.<p>

The androgynous little glam rocker had been stopped many times on the street by friends- acquaintances, more accurately- who were currently on their weekly walk of shame, asking where he'd been the previous night. Vince Noir never stayed home on a Friday evening if he could help it, and his unusual absence had raised some suspicion with the Camden elite. _Had last night been Friday? _He couldn't recall. Not that he could recall most Friday nights, but this lack of recollection stemmed from something entirely different. The thought of Howard's death made his social life seem paltry in comparison. Vince could always move away if his social standing went down the tubes. He could find new acquaintances faster than anyone. But he could never find another Howard. Most people struggle their entire lives to find someone they can love and share with as much as Vince loved and shared with Howard, and most people struggle in vain. Vince knew he was very fortunate to have found such a valuable relationship, but he never knew how to show it. That was going to change. The more his acquaintances questioned his nonattendance, the more he wanted to get back to Howard. He had to stop taking him for granted. He had to make sure he knew just how much he cared.


	7. A Momentary Lapse of Rational

**A/N: A suuuuuuper huge, sincere thank you to Chalcedony Rivers for all the reviews!**

**Oh, and chapter title's from the song 'In a Moment' by the infinitely talented Ray Davies.**

SEVEN

Momentary Lapse of Rational

"Hoooooward?" Vince called as he glided up the stairs of the shop and into their flat. "I've got your boring, dull, adult breakfast right here!" He held up the bag of take-out to Howard, who was still sitting at the kitchen table, looking far away and distracted as he carefully rubbed his wrist. "Howard?" Vince repeated gingerly. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine!" Howard replied, as if snapping out of a trance. "So what'd you end up getting us?"

"Howard, what's wrong with your arm?"

"Oh, it's nothing, I-"

Vince put down his bag and roughly grabbed the older man's wrist, pulling it to closer inspection. "Nothin'? Bullshit, what the hell happened here? You're all red, Howard!" And he was. His entire fore-arm was completely red, the skin looking severely agitated.

"If you can see that, stop bein' so rough!" Howard retorted, not willing to irritate the area more by tearing away.

"That's not an answer! What the hell did you do?" Vince stared into Howard's eyes, which, for once, didn't dart away immediately. The concern originally possessed by the younger man was evaporating into frustration. "Did you do this to yourself?" he yelled, his voice cracking the way it always did when he raised it. "Jesus, Howard. I knew you went off twistin' your skin about, but you've never done anythin' like this before! How can you be so stupid?"

"Vince, I-"

"Let me finish!" The unusual exigency in his voice stopped Howard in his tracks. "How do you think it makes me feel to see this? It hurts, yeah? Knock this fucking shit off, Howard! I can't-"

"Vince!" Howard finally interrupted, silencing his friend's passionate prating. "I didn't do this! Your robe did."

"…What?"

"Your robe did! I went to move it and it was still smoldering. I got a little burned, but it isn't that bad! I mean… if you think this looks bad, you should see the damage on the robe! I put up a fair fight, yes sir!"

Vince let go of Howard's arm, feeling incredibly foolish and deeply regretting his tirade. "Oh…" was all he could manage to say.

"What's gotten into you, Little Man? You don't find this funny at all?"

"No; why would I? You got yourself hurt!"

"That's exactly why," Howard replied, suspiciously.

Vince looked down, suddenly unable to make eye contact. "Yeah, well… I guess it **is **kind of funny." Why couldn't he tell him? _'I found your paper, Howard, and I'm worried about you.' _"Jesus, Small Eyes, you were willin' to fight a kangaroo, but when you face an inanimate piece of clothing, you crumble like Feta cheese!" _'You can't keep feeling this way. I know I can be a bitchy little prima donna to you, but I don't mean it. I never do.' _"It's well pathetic." He let out a laugh that he didn't feel. _'I love you. I love you. I'm __**in **__love with you.'_ Why couldn't he say it?

Howard let out a sigh that was half made up of relief and half made up of disappointment. "There we go," he said, sounding satisfied. He flinched as his injury rubbed against the surface of the table.

Vince sensed the pain he was in and stopped his ersatz show of amusement. "Did you put anything on that, Howard?"

The hurt man looked at him circumspectly. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say you sound concerned."

"Yeah, well… you're not answerin' me."

"Just some cool water," he replied.

"Come with me."

"Why?"

Vince sighed at his friend's justifiable hesitance to anything he suggested. "Because! Naboo made me this genius cream that'll clear up burns quick fast. Apparently he got sick of me complaining every time I fell asleep on a straightener." He rolled his eyes at that last part, but then continued, trying his hardest not to divert from the topic at hand. "Anyway, it'll really dull the pain, and by tomorrow you'll have no sign of the burn at all. It'll get pretty grotesque tonight, though, but it's well worth it."

"You really want to help me?" Howard asked. "This cream won't turn out to be super-strength elixir or some other twisted gag?"

Vince was hurt by how much Howard doubted his motives, but laughed at the thought of applying hair-growth elixir to his arm. "That's a good one, actually," he chuckled, before tuning back into reality. "But yeah, I really want to help! No funny business; I promise."

"Swear on Jagger?"

"Swear on Jagger."

Howard eyed him with suspicion one more time, but allowed himself to be led into the bathroom by the deeply confusing man before him.

* * *

><p>"No… no… no… for fuck's sake, where is it?" Vince asked aloud as he rummaged through his section of the closet in the bathroom. He was throwing aside more cosmetics than a frustrated Avon representative. Howard stared in amazement at how much he'd managed to fit into the small storage space. "Yes! Here we go!" He produced a circular container labeled 'Naboo's Miracle Treatment' and twisted off the lid.<p>

"I think I can put it on myself, Vince. Thanks, though," Howard offered as the younger man put his fingers into the container.

"Like hell you can… I wanna make sure this is taken care of, yeah? Now sit down," he ordered, pointing at the toilet.

"Thanks for your concern, but really-"

"Sit down!"

Too perplexed by Vince's adamancy to protest, he obliged. Vince knelt down in front of him, set the cream down on the floor, and carefully held his arm out. He could tell right away that Howard was uncomfortable but tried to ignore it. "This is gonna sting a little, yeah? Tell me if it gets to be too much."

"'Sting a little'… oh, please, I can take a little medication! I'm Howard Moon! I've got quite the threshold for pain," he scoffed, his discomfort palpably increasing.

"Yeah, whatever, just don't say I didn't warn you," Vince said, rolling his eyes. With that, he slowly trailed his treatment-coated fingers along the ever-reddening burn, drawing a sharp intake of breath from the man he was applying it to. Vince stopped. "You alright?"

Howard squeezed his eyes shut, trying to play off the pain. "Yeah, I'm fine! Keep it goin', sir, fix me up!"

Vince shook his head doubtfully and, despite what had been said, worked the medication onto his fore-arm in an even gentler manner. He looked up at Howard's face, which seemed to be writhing in agony, and said, "Look, if it hurts you, just say so. I can go softer, and it'll take longer, sure, but the point of this is to take **away **pain."

Howard seemed to look back at him through closed lids. "Keep going," he demanded through the stinging.

"Alright…" Vince put his fingers back into the container and continued to rub its contents affectionately onto Howard's injury. Adoring eyes unknowingly shifting toward the bath tub, he replayed their one-sided, predominantly mental dalliance from the previous night… then they flicked back to the task he was performing, and the intimacy and sensuality of it all came crushing down on him like a weight. He'd probably applied more than enough medication. But what other opportunity did he have to touch Howard like this? The rubbing began to change to caressing as he drank in every beautiful, stimulating sensation that came along with the personal situation they were in. Vince never wanted to stop touching him. His subconscious eventually led him to place his hand into Howard's, delicate, child-like fingers intertwining with rough, musically calloused ones.

This completely unnecessary step toward physical contact caused Howard's eyes to fly open with surprise as he instinctively withdrew. Vince looked up at him, the blue in his wide eyes darkened by obvious hurt. "Uh… t-thanks, V-Vince. Thank you," Howard stammered nervously.

"You're welcome," came the forcefully cheerful reply.

"Well… we'd best go eat, eh? Gotta have energy and endurance for another day of shop-keeping!"

"Wait, Howard," the younger man said, in a tone so uncharacteristically serious that they both became motionless.

"What is it?" he finally asked.

Vince looked at him carefully. God, he was beautiful… and his complete ignorance of his own powerful, distracting beauty only intensified that fact. "You… you know you're my best mate, right?"

Howard returned the look. "Of course I do…"

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure! And you're my best mate, too. Seriously, Vince, what's going on with you? I'm getting scared."

_**He's **__the one getting scared about __**me**__? _"Nothing. I just… I want you to know, alright?"

Howard's worry completely dominated his visage, and it was only worsened by what Vince said next: "And… I want you to know that I… well, that… I love you." He stared at the glam rocker as if waiting for a punch-line.

Seeing that his words didn't register with his intellectual yet emotionally clueless friend, Vince sighed and tried to think of a way to re-word it. "You're like the cord on my Nicky Clarke straightener, yeah?"

If anything were to throw Howard even further and harder down into the depths of utter confusion, it was this comparison. "…What?"

Vince exhaled in wild frustration. "Alright! Look…" he began, still kneeling down and unknowingly taking Howard's hand in his once more. He was thankful that the other man's bewilderment had possessed him to the point of immobility. "When times get tough… in humidity, when my hair gets all frizzy and unmanageable… then I can count on my John Frieda spray to calm it down enough to let my Nicky do its job. That's what my good friends do. That's what people like Leroy and Naboo and Bollo do. When things seem to get out of control, they make it loads easier. But you don't just do that. You're Nicky's cord. You get rammed into walls and torn out of plugs… you get mistreated and you're not really paid as much attention to as the actual straightener. But without you, Nicky wouldn't even have the power or energy to function."

Howard's usually defensive gaze softened, both moved and impressed at the depth of Vince's seemingly shallow metaphor.

"I know I don't really show it, but… yeah, I love you, okay?" he concluded.

"You really mean all that?"

"Of course I do!"

"Well…" Howard breathed deeply before continuing. "I love you, too."

The joyful feelings that overtook Vince after hearing those four words were indescribable. His insides squirmed and broke into zealous somersaults._ Kiss him. Kiss him, you clot! _Fortunately, he knew better than to trust his impulses when it came to dealing with someone as fragile as Howard. "Really?" he double-checked.

"Of course I do. You're my best mate!"

These words pierced and deflated Vince's heart like a balloon. _Shit_. He'd temporarily forgotten that there was more than one meaning of the word 'love.' Too spent to pursue the matter any further, Vince took his hand out of Howard's and stood up shakily. He smiled his brilliant, blinding smile, feeling stupider than any of Howard's patronizing lectures had ever made him feel. How could he have thought, even for a brief moment, that the man in front of him could ever return the feelings he'd been surreptitiously harboring? _It's never going to happen, Vince. You may look like a bird, you may act like a bird, but at the end of the day, you're still a bloke. A bloke with the depth of a puddle. That'll never appeal to someone like him. _Swallowing down his newly delivered dose of reality, he said, "I know I am, Howard. Now let's eat, yeah?"


	8. But It's You I Fell Into

**A/N: As usual, you reviewers are the best. Seriously.  
><strong>**  
>Also, if you're unfamiliar with the original Old Gregg ending to the 'Party' episode, go watch it! Not only because it makes the episode even more amazing, but because there's a few vague references to it in here.<strong>

**Warnings for sexual comments, blatant drug use and language.**

**The chapter title's from the song 'Big Me' by the Foo Fighters.**

EIGHT

But It's You I Fell Into

Issue of _Cheekbone _once againin his disinterested hands, Vince was sitting exactly as he had been the day before. And, just as the day before, he was focused on Howard who was, as expected, manning the counter. "Howard?" Vince asked.

"Yeah?"

"I'm bored."

"You could al-"

"And I'm hungry."

"How are you possibly hungry? We've just come back from lunch break no more than an hour ago."

"I don't know, Howard! But I'm not feeling so normal. Maybe we should close down shop early…"

The older man rolled his eyes, failing to think of a Saturday in the past that Vince hadn't tried to get the Nabootique to close prematurely. "Don't think so, Little Man. Try again."

Vince exhaled in a show of annoyance as he slammed his magazine onto his chair and strode over to his friend. "No, I'm serious this time! I'm really feelin' weird."

"Well, that's what happens when your diet consists primarily of Saturn Zingers and Raspberry Bootlaces," Howard said, unwilling to buy into what was surely another charade just yet.

"Yeah, I didn't even have those today, did I?"

"What exactly **did **you have today?"

Vince shrugged. "A few of those little cakes in the fridge and some of those pancake toppings from the morning."

"That's not very balanced, V- wait a second. What little cakes?" Howard asked askance.

"You know… the ones on the blue plate. The ones Naboo's always ravin' about."

"You've gotta be shitting with me, Vince…" Howard warned, suddenly not so worried about closing times.

"Relax, I didn't eat 'em all! There's still some up there if you want some; they're amazing!" he prattled on, clueless.

"Those were meant to be taken with Naboo on his stag!" Howard exclaimed. He rubbed his temples, not believing that at any time now, he'd be stuck one-on-one with the only thing more distracting than Vince Noir: a stoned Vince Noir. "H… How many did you have?" he finally brought himself to ask.

Shrugging perfunctorily, he replied, "Not too many. Three or four…? Maybe five, but that's at most."

Howard gaped at him in horror, his small eyes open as wide as they could physically stretch. "Five?"

"At most!"

The self-titled maverick slouched behind the counter, playing mental tennis with the plethora of possible ways to deal with what was inevitably coming for him. "Go upstairs," he at last directed, defeated. "We're closing the shop down for the day. You won't be able to function much longer."

Vince's face broke into a wide smile. "Alright! Cheers, Howard." Before he knew what he was doing, he'd planted a grateful kiss on Howard's cheek. Vince froze, his stomach fizzing with self-satisfaction, embarrassment and a growing lack of inhibition. "Er… sorry. I don't know why I did that," he tried to laugh off, although he was telling the truth.

"Luckily, I do…" the other man muttered. Five hash cakes in one sitting was bad news, real bad juju. But five of **Naboo's **hash cakes in one sitting… oh dear God, Howard cringed at the thought. "Now get up there, alright? Stay calm. Go watch some cartoons. …Nothing too exciting!" When he was sure Vince was gone, Howard thoughtfully brought his hand up to feel his cheek. Ignoring a slight shiver, he proceeded to take all of the requisite close-down precautions.

* * *

><p>"Oh, dear," Howard mumbled as he reached the living room. Vince was sprawled out on the couch, stripped down to his red Y-fronts, with Naboo's old 'Peacock Dreams' tape showing on the television screen in front of him. "What are you doing? Put some clothes on, you berk!"<p>

"Howard!" Vince cried, jerking upward in excitement. "This show is brilliant; you've gotta come watch it with me!"

"Vince, I'd really prefer it if you could put some clothes on."

Vince looked himself over, perplexed. "Oh, that's right! Sorry about that. I felt like I was on fire, so I had to take 'em all off. It's more comfortable this way!"

"I literally **was **on fire earlier, and you didn't see me peeling off my clothes," he rejoined.

"Kinda wish I did…" Vince said contemplatively.

"What?"

"Howard, look at this!" Vince cried, waving his hand in front of the older man's face. "Check that out."

"What… what exactly am I supposed to be checking out?"

"Look how slowly I'm moving! It's like I'm in claymation. Look at that… It's all shaky and slow. I wish I was in claymation. I'd meet loads of cartoon characters that way."

Howard pinched the bridge of his nose. This was only going to get worse.

"Come sit with me!" Vince invited, totally losing interest in his claymation sight. With a heavy sigh, Howard hesitantly took the seat next to his friend, who was busy bouncing around and rattling on about God-knows-what. After a few minutes of Howard's uncomfortable reticence, Vince whispered, as if letting him in on a deep secret, "I think those cakes might've been Naboo's special cakes, if you know what I mean."

Howard shook his head in disbelief. "You've figured that out all by yourself, have you?"

"Yeah! It's alright, though. It's well freaky, sure, but I'm havin' loads of fun!" Vince laughed giddily before taking a more relaxing turn, lying his head down on Howard, using his lap as a pillow as he stared up at the ceiling. "I love you, you jazzy freak. Did you know that?"

Howard shifted uncomfortably, desperately looking around for a possible- any possible- exit. That window looked awfully tempting…

"Well, if you didn't, now you do," Vince continued. "I love you a lot."

"You're not well, Vince…"

"Oh, I'm very well!" he yelled, sitting himself upright again. "I've never been more well! Look at me! I'm free, I'm young, I'm unstoppable!"

"Are you watching this… this retard-inspired dreck?" Howard abruptly asked, gesturing toward the television set. "Or can I change it to something a little more intellectually stimulating?"

"Oh, by all means, do what you want! Just stay out here, yeah? I like spending time with you, Howard. We don't spend enough time together."

"Vince, we spend nearly every waking moment together. We share a bedroom, for God's sake," he replied, flicking off the VCR.

"Yeah, well, that's not enough! Ooh, Howard, look! It's your commercial!" Howard turned as red as the crab he'd been dressed as upon seeing his own image come up on the screen. Vince was hysterical. "Look at you! Trapped wind, oh no!" He kept laughing and making inane comments until Jurgen Haabermaaster graced the commercial with his pompous presence, causing Vince's mood to take a plunge down for the worse. "Aw, fuck him!" he cried out.

"Excuse me?"

"Fuck him! Look at him, with his… with his director's chair and his… beret… and his… his… little sunglasses thing on one eye!"

"His monocle?" Howard asked tediously.

"Yea, fuck that too! He doesn't deserve to have you movin' around inside of him."

Howard seemed to choke on the air he was breathing. "Don't say it like that, Vince."

"He doesn't! He's a fuckin' tool, and you slaved your ass off to work with him! He should be honored to have you inside him! If you were inside me, I wouldn't kill you off with that… Windy Blast stuff!"

"That's perverted."

Vince sighed heavily, throwing his bare back against the couch. "You know what I mean! Haven't you learned from that? Now you're off entering something to work with him another time!"

"Look. I happen to have very strong opinions on the subject of his current contest, okay? I have a feeling I could win this, and I want to get my work out the-"

"Then why don't you just show me your work? I'd love it if you were able to share all this with me!"

"You wouldn't be interested in this kind of thing."

"Come on, Howard!" Vince practically pleaded, turning to face his friend. "I love you. I love you! Why don't you see that? I'd never go out and intentionally hurt you, and I'd never go out and intentionally waste your talent."

"My what now?" Howard asked, dumbfounded. Through his friends intoxicated ramblings, this was something he hadn't expected to hear.

"Your talent! You're an amazin' writer, Howard. You have to know that! You're so smart and you know all these fancy words, like… like… fuck, what was it… like requite! You taught me the meaning of the word requite! You can write and you're… you're a musical genius! The ice cream man wasted all of that in his commercial!"

"For the last time, Vince, it's not Häagen- wait. What have you read of mine?" Howard asked, growing increasingly concerned.

Vince saw this and covered up his steps. "That… that sentence back at the zoo! Remember that? When the publisher came?"

Howard fell back against the couch, dejected at the memory. "How can I forget? **You **got the limelight as a writer, and I ended up punching my soul mate in the face. Great night for Howard T.J. Moon!" he seethed.

"Soul mate? I thought you said that girl from your birthday party was your soul mate!"

"Yeah, well…" Howard shuddered, and then continued, "she didn't quite turn out to be what I thought she was, alright?"

Vince's drug-induced smile was further widened by the revelation that the girl from the party was out of his beloved friend's life. "Hey, Howard! Did you… and that… and that party bird, did you guys…"

"Oh, God, no!" Howard exclaimed, disgusted by the idea.

Not willing himself to stifle more laughter, Vince asked, "So, you're still technically… you know… a virgin?"

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up!" Howard said defensively. "Howard Moon, 32 year-old virgin, ha-ha-ha, let's document his pathetic love life!"

Still laughing, Vince tried to comfort him, but to no avail. "Come on! It isn't… pathetic…"

"Who are we kidding?" he sighed. "I'm 32. I've never even kissed a woman."

"Well… you've kissed a man who looks like a woman!" Vince offered, bouncing excitedly again.

"Yeah, we promised to never talk about that, remember?" Howard asked acerbically.

"I guess not."

Howard looked at his friend. Anything resembling thought and self control had left him. His blue eyes darted around the room distractedly. And as each second ticked by, his inebriated condition would only worsen until a very unpleasant crash. Howard stood up from the couch and announced, "We've gotta get you to bed, Little Man. You've gotta sleep this off before it makes you sick."

"I don't wanna go to bed, Howard. I'm havin' fun!"

"Vince, come on…" He wasn't in the mood to play the role of the over-exhausted father.

"Make me!"

"Vince. You're 27 years old."

"That's preposterous! I'm… 22. 20? Maybe 18. Could I pass for 18?"

"Mentally, you could pass for about 5. Now let's get you to bed, alright? You'll be back to your old self when you wake up."

"Aw, come off it!" Vince begged, pulling Howard by his un-burned wrist back onto the couch.

"I'm serious, Vince. Don't mess with me."

"Or what?" he asked playfully.

"Or… or you'll be sorry you messed with me."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'll… make you sorry! And that's all I'm at liberty to say as of now, sir."

"Yeah, whatever. Hey, Howard?"

"What?"

Vince swallowed sharply, vacillating whether or not he should continue. Even when he was toasted, he realized the weight of this particular thought. "I'll go to bed if you answer something."

Howard looked at him with wary interest. "…What is it…?"

"Did you enjoy that kiss?"

Fiddling with the collar of his shirt, Howard turned to face away from Vince. He simply stammered and garbled some incoherencies in reply before saying, "We promised not to bring that up again."

"Yeah, well I broke the promise and now my question's hangin' out there for you to see."

"Well… it… it was very… nice. Satisfied? Now off to bed you go."

"'**Nice**?'" Vince asked, crestfallen. "What about all that stuff you yelled about bein' a massive gayist and all that?"

"Momentary lapse. We've been over it. And we won't be over it again. Alright?"

* * *

><p>Vince lay awake in his bed, mind reeling. He couldn't sleep in this condition. Not without being tired. Not without having Howard on the bed adjacent to his. Howard, Howard, Howard… he couldn't think of anything else. The potent hash cakes had blocked out everything. He couldn't think of Gary Numan or fashion or upcoming gigs. He could only think of Howard, Howard, Howard and how much he loved him.<p>

_"Well… it… it was very… nice." _Just what the hell was Vince supposed to make out of that? Being stoned was a double edged sword, he realized. It may have let him get away with saying those things, but it also diminished their value. That, and it made his mind too fogged up to know what exactly Howard had meant by "nice." When he was completely sober, Vince could read his friend as effortlessly as his issues of _Cheekbone_. But he was slightly more mysterious when veiled by the haze of laced baked goods.

Turning restlessly from side to side, now feeling more annoyed than amused by the "claymation" effect, Vince could do nothing but cogitate his relationship with Howard and how he may have enabled his newly discovered suicidal contemplations in the past. The hash seemed to be possessing the debacle of his high, turning his previous ecstasy into paranoia. Bitter tears rained from his sorrow-stricken eyes and he was left muttering Howard's name until sweet unconsciousness was kind enough to overtake him.


	9. The Long Winded Curses I Hear in My Head

**A/N: For the millionth time, a hearty thanks to you faithful reviewers and readers!  
>Warnings for language... and I think that's it.<strong>

**Chapter title's from the oh-so powerful song 'Say Hello 2 Heaven' by Temple of the Dog. **

NINE

The Long Winded Curses I Hear in My Head

Vince let out a piercing shriek. The worst must have had happened. He couldn't recall what events led to this horrific juncture, but he could certainly understand the repercussions that would have to be dealt with, the years of psychiatric help he'd undoubtedly have to go through… he was standing in front of a large room full of people, wearing a business suit and donning a buzz cut. He felt nauseous. His beautiful, flawless layers of pulchritudinous, ravenous locks… where had they gone? Vince's blue eyes widened in fear as he frantically patted the top of his head, as if touch alone would restore his aesthetically charged pride, growing more and more frightened and confused by the second.

Where was he? The room was vast, that was for sure. When his gaze fell upon any portion of his setting, a structure would immediately emerge. Various shades of brown were ambient, appearing in benches, tables, stands… if he didn't know better, he'd have said it was a court room. As he stared fixedly at the wooden podium in the center-front of the unfamiliar area, it transformed into a towering stand, one of prodigious and intimidating decorum and stature. It was made up of slants and sharp angles. The vapid, wooden flooring fizzled into an uneven checkerboard in discomforting, gothic shades of black and amethyst, as if he were in the kitchen of Satan himself. An unseen force shoved him into a rusted, metal chair that had somehow appeared behind him and secured him in position with iron clasps that attached themselves over his torso, wrists and ankles. Vince wriggled and twisted, he struggled and tried, but he couldn't procure any leverage from the unyielding hold of the aged piece of furniture.

Vince's first instinct was to call out for help. Howard would know what to do. He'd know where he was. He always knew everything. "Howard?" he cried desperately. His only reply was the resounding echo of his own voice, the name of his love bouncing back to him, mocking the fact that they were apart. Where was he? "Howard?" he continued to scream, until his vocal cords were strained to the point of reducing his hopeful pleas to guttural, worn whimpers. "Where are you, Howard…" he sobbed to himself, as he watched the remaining shades of brown in the room change into the same unsettling hues as the floors, all the conventional and unremarkable furniture altering into the same uneven and soaring construction as the podium had. It was as if he was trapped in a Tim Burton film gone mad. The people in the benches behind him had now faded into the background; they sat still, in silent veneration and respect for what was shown before them. As the entire room darkened to deep black, a bright, violet spotlight fell onto the podium, behind which suddenly stood, confusingly enough, a coconut on a stick. It wore glasses and black and red vestments; it had holes for eyes and shabby sailor's rope for hair, and yet its regal appearance ostensibly appointed it a judge. Vince recognized this thing. It had sentenced Howard and himself to public shame and execution on counts of murder in a shared nightmare they'd had. If history was repeating itself, where was Howard?

"Keep yelling out for him, Vincent Noir. You know better than any one of us here that he is never going to come for you," came its wise and disconcerting voice.

"What?" Vince asked, panicking. "What have you done with Howard? And… and what have you done with my hair? And where the hell am I?" As the violet spotlight dimmed and eventually covered the entire scene, his eyes scoured the room for anything remotely familiar. He felt himself melt with inexpressible relief as the tiny figure of Naboo materialized to his right. "Naboo!" he greeted with a sigh. "Naboo, what's going on? Where am I?"

"You really don't remember?" replied the shaman skeptically.

"Remember what? Why do you people keep assuming I know things when I don't?"

"Vince, you're in court. You're on trial and I'm your defense."

"On trial for what? I've never done anythin' to merit somethin' like this in my whole life!"

"For the murder of Howard Moon," Naboo responded, dead-pan as ever.

Vince began to hyperventilate. "Wh… what? Whaddya on about? I would never hurt Howard!"

"That's what I keep tryin' to say, but the persecutor is doin' one hell of a job proving otherwise." Naboo pointed across the room, and a white light shone onto the figure to which he was calling attention. Vince squinted. It looked like him. But no, it wasn't him… this figure had dark, cold eyes. Eyes that stared at Vince menacingly, eyes that wanted nothing more than to see him destroyed. …Lance? Was this Lance Dior?

Lance confidently strode across the center of the courtroom, the scintillate whiteness lighting his path. "Oh, yeah. The defendant here wants to make us all believe his loyalty to Howard Moon; the man who took him under his wing, the man who looked after him, the man who gave life to this previously shoddy little jungle freak," he began venomously. "But it was clear to anyone who knew his simple psyche well enough that this was not loyalty. He had murder written in his shallow mind."

"What?" screamed Vince, outraged. "That's ridiculous, I'd nev-"

"Order!" directed the judge with ferocity and a slam of his gavel.

"Objection, Your Honor," came the monotone voice of Naboo. "It was very clear that Howard's death was a suicide. There was a note, in his handwriting, and the all knowing Moon has testified as a witness to his leap off the roof. Trying to blame this on Vince is absolutely ridiculous."

Vince felt his mouth dry and seemingly fill with sand. He was too weak to continue to hyperventilate. Suicide? Howard… Howard had killed himself? He'd gone through with it? He wanted to cry, but the numbness that gripped him prevented him from even that form of release.

"Not all murder is so easy to define, little shaman," Lance continued confidently and intentionally condescendingly. "Vince was fully aware of Howard's self destructive intentions, yeah? Why didn't he try to stop him? Why didn't he say anything? If Vince loved this man so much… why couldn't he save him? Because he's weak, you could argue. Because he's naïve, he's a **simpleton**. This is all true. And maybe, just maybe, he didn't save him because he knew he couldn't.

"If that's the case, though," Lance continued, arrogantly sauntering back and forth, "the argument is still being made that this sorry excuse for a man drove his 'best mate'"- these words he spat, as if they besmirched his mouth with their mere utterance- "to this act."

"This is bullshit, I'd never hurt Howard!" Vince cried, gaining indignation.

"Order!" repeated the judge. "I'm not going to tell you again, boy. And watch that mouth of yours."

"Apologies, Your Honor," Naboo spoke on his client's behalf. "But again I'll have to object."

"Overruled. Continue, Mr. Dior."

"Thank you, Your Honor. Now, I'd like to call up the defendant for some questioning," prompted the ever-smug prosecutor.

"You can do this, Vince," whispered Naboo reassuringly. "You've got nothin' to worry about. Just tell the truth."

Vince nodded half heartedly and, before he knew it, was transported to the witnesses' stand, remaining bound to his chair.

"Vincent Noir… you claim to be the best mate of Howard Moon, yeah?"

"I don't claim to be," the defendant retorted. "I am."

"You claim you'd never hurt the victim, yeah?"

Vince shifted, clearly becoming uneasy. "Well… not intentionally, no."

Lance eyed him, amused, not buying the answer. "Alright, Vincey. It's fair to say that you've never really been ignored, have you? You're used to the spotlight. Even when you grew up in the jungle, you were the favorite ward of Mr. Ferry, and even the primates envied your striking looks to the point of attempting to steal your face. All your life, you've been the center of attention. Is this right?"

How had Lance known such detail about his childhood in the jungle? "Yeah, I guess so…"

"But never had anyone's attention meant as much to you as when it came from one Howard T.J. Moon. You followed him around. You vied for his attention, his love. How ironic is it that the one person's attention he strived to receive was the one person's attention he could never obtain?" Lance looked into the defendant's eyes with a feral and bitter challenge. "You became angered. You were frustrated. Why didn't he love you? Everybody else did."

"That's a lie, you bitch, Howard loves me!" Vince cried, almost trying to convince himself as much as the rest of the room.

"Watch your mouth!" cautioned the judge.

Lance smirked satisfactorily, as if he'd just caught a defenseless, stupid animal in an elaborate, home-made trap. "Ah… he did, didn't he?"

A television set, black and purple in color to fit the disturbing décor, appeared as Lance asked the rhetoric question. As the prosecutor's smirk widened, the image of the apparently younger Howard and Vince bound to an icy post flicked to life on its screen. The posthumous picture of his flat mate, his best mate, his **soul mate**, reduced the present-tense Vince to tears immediately, and, knowing what was coming, he couldn't help but bury his nearly bald head in unbearable shame.

"_Vince? This is difficult for me, but… I feel as though I should say this. …I love you, Vince."_

He couldn't look. He heard his younger self stifle a laugh, and never in his life had he felt so low.

"_What're you doing?"_

"_Nothing."_

"_Are you laughing?"_

"_No." _Oh, for fuck's sake, you could hear the smile in his voice!

"_You better not be laughing at me now. I'm telling you I love you; how dare you laugh at me?"_

"_You make me laugh…"_

The dialogue stopped, and Vince lifted his teary face for a weak protest. "You didn't let it finish… I say it back. I say it back!"

"Alright, and so you do," Lance conceded. "But… what about **this **time? Do you say it back here?"

A new image from a more recent past appeared. They were both seated on the roof of the Nabootique, shown in a passionate, albeit mostly one-sided, kiss and embrace. Vince's heart swelled and ached simultaneously. How could they show him this? This was cruel and unusual punishment... it was torture! Vince was no officer of the law, but this type of psychological torment had to be illegal.

"_Thank __**you**__," _Howard had said, as earnest as could be.

"_What do you mean?"_

"_Thank __**you **__for the gift of love." _Vince hadn't noticed the look in Howard's eyes when they had actually been up there. They were full of genuine gratitude. They were full of awe. They were full of… adoration. Of real, unadulterated love.

"_It was just a kiss!"_ No, it hadn't been "just a kiss." Vince knew it. But he also knew he didn't want to be Howard's new Gideon… someone he'd become hopelessly infatuated with, and then, as a result of his own emotional immaturity, forget about. He didn't want infatuation. He wanted love. And the way Vince was going to extract love from Howard Moon was not through some fear-induced, messy snog. But how could he possibly explain all that?

"_Pretend you don't love me!"_

"_**Love?**__"_

"_Oh, yes…"_

"_Howard, you've gone mad…"_

This was the twist of the knife to Vince's wounds. He'd always known he'd said those things, but hearing them back… hearing what appeared to be plain disgust in his voice… was something completely new.

"So, tell me," Lance started after the scene had finished playing out, intentionally freezing the television screen on the image of Howard arm-in-arm with the pencil case girl. "Was it said back here? Here he was, proclaiming his love for you for the entire world to hear… and you, in turn, coldly questioned his sanity."

Fresh tears shimmering in his wide, fearful eyes, Vince didn't know how to respond. Lance was right. Goddammit, he was right. He looked across the room to his lawyer for some encouragement, but found none; Naboo had vanished.

"Now… let's look at some more instances of Vince Noir's so called 'love' for Howard Moon, shall we?"

The seemingly anthropomorphic chair that Vince was trapped in used more iron enforcement to jerk the man's head upward and then used smaller tools to hold his eyes open, forcing him to watch the screen.

"_I'm going in there, Vince… it's a dangerous mission… and I'm… I'm asking you if you want to come with me. Are you in?" _

"_I'd like to, but I've gotta play table tennis with Mr. Bollo." _

"…_Okay. Well, at least now I know where you stand. Thanks."_

Vince recoiled from his own words. He'd forgotten that one. After being forced to endure a few more minutes of his negligence, he changed his mind about what he'd thought before. **Now **he could confidently say that never in his life had he felt so low.

"_Well done. I knew it; you always have to spoil it, don't you?"_

No. That wasn't true. **Vince **was always the one who spoiled it. Not Howard.

"_We're being held captive by a violent dwarf!"_

"…_**I'm **__not…"_

Had he really been so selfish?

"_Helloooo, we're supposed to be rescuin' Howard!" _Alright, Vince thought. He was being shown in an attempt to save his friend; how could this backfire? But he cringed as he saw himself lean over Bollo and encourage him, distractedly, to play a better game of Pac-Man.

Vince was then shown equipped with a can of spray paint, writing the words 'Howard Moon Licks Balls for Money' on the shutters of the Nabootique before hearing Howard say, _"I have the money now… in my hand! I have now got the money… VIIIIIIIIIIIIINCE?"_

Then he was shown smashing Howard's cherished jazz record after being goaded by his short-lived, idiotic, punk band-mates. Then he was shown twirling around, carefree, in an extravagant cape, ignoring the fact that he'd just gotten Howard fired, ignoring Howard's vow to never forgive him, distracted by the pretty colors and shiny fabric.

"_Friends… people of Camden… you are the chosen ones. You have been brought here for one purpose and one purpose alone: to bask in the glory of my outfit and party like you've never partied before! …Oh yeah. And it's Howard's birthday as well. …Music!"_

"Okay, just fucking stop!" Vince cried. "I'll plead guilty, I'll do whatever you want, just as long as you stop…" The chair released its grip on his eyes and face as the television set froze.

Lance smiled innocently. "Really? And why is it you're pleading guilty?"

"For bein' a shit friend… for not appreciating Howard, who did everythin' for me… for not bein' honest with him about the way I felt… still feel…"

"No, no, no," chided Lance Dior, full of patronizing contempt. "That's not why you're here, is it? Tell us all what exactly you're pleading guilty of. C'mon… **Little Man**."

Vince stared at him, eyes moistening and hardening at the same time. "I can't say it, Lance…" he whispered. "Please don't make me say it…"

He was replied to with another wry smirk before the television screen made itself wider and flicked back to life, greeting Vince with an image far worse than himself with no hair. The screen showed Howard's body, mangled and lifeless, on the hard ground below the shop's roof. Vince didn't need metal enforcement at this point; the horror had frozen him, and it was impossible to look away, no matter how much he wanted to.

When he thought he couldn't come any closer to his emotional limit, in swooped Lance Dior to exacerbate the already excruciating and intolerable pain. "And let's read Howard's note, shall we?" He didn't wait for a reply, because he knew Vince had lost the ability to speak, and read from a torn scrap of paper Howard's final three words from this lifetime: "I'm sorry, Vince."

The image on the television screen grew. It became bigger and bigger until it finally consumed the rocker, swallowing him whole and throwing him into the self-deprecating circles of agony that he'd read about in Howard's contest entry. In that moment, Vince Noir, rock n' roll star, Sunshine Kid, simpleton, truly knew how it felt to wish for nothing more than a death that just wouldn't come. He knew what it meant to have nothing to live for. He knew how Howard had been feeling all this time.

Cold sweat drenching his entire body, Vince jerked violently upward, confused to find himself in the safe confines of his bed. He let tears rush down his face. Tears of relief, tears of sorrow, tears of regret… tears of love. He caught his breath, allowing himself ample time to recover from his lurid nightmare before calling out the only sound his voice could seem to remember how to make: "Howard?"


	10. If Ever There Was Someone to Keep Me at

**A/N: A massive thanks to all you reviewers and new subscribers; I'm hoping this chapter isn't anticlimactic!**

**The title of this chapter is from the song 'Guaranteed' by the inhumanly beautiful and talented Eddie Vedder.**

TEN

If Ever There Was Someone to Keep Me at Home, It Would be You

_It was just a dream, Vince… stop worrying… he's here. Everything's fine. _When Howard didn't immediately respond to the repeated ululations of his name, Vince's first instinct was to worry. His feelings were far too reminiscent of when he'd noted Howard's absence in his nightmare. _He just hasn't heard me. That's all._

Relief flooded over him when he soon enough received a rapping on the door and a hurried entrance from the man he'd been worrying about. "Howard!" Vince cried, stumbling out of his bed to wrap him in a rather aggressively affectionate embrace.

Howard stiffened at the contact. "Uh… hi, Vince."

The younger man tightened his grip, threatening to crush him, before letting him go. "Oh my God, Howard, I was so worried! Where've you been?"

"Worried? I've only been on the roof."

Vince felt the wind being knocked out of him and he fell back onto his unmade bed. "The roof?" _It's just a coincidence… don't over-think it. Oh, please, God, let it just be a coincidence…_

"Yes, the roof. It's a very inspirational place for a poet," Howard began, his tone changing from doubtful to pensive. "Having the entire city below your feet, having nothing but old Mr. Moon above you… it's instant inspiration, Vince."

The younger man fell back even more, this time with the comfort of the dark irony. "Oh… alright. Wait, Mr. Moon? What time is it?"

Howard shrugged. "Half seven, just about? You've been asleep for quite a while; I was starting to wonder about you. Are you feelin' alright?"

Vince exhaled and nodded, his face looking otherwise caught up in thought. "Yeah, yeah, much better, thanks. Just had… a weird dream, 's all."

"I'll bet you did," Howard said, returning to his paternal, protective side. "Five of Naboo's hash cakes… that's a stoner's tranquilizer if I've ever heard of one."

Vince smiled weakly. "Yeah. Hey, Howard?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you… could you sit with me for a bit?"

"Uh… sure, alright," he replied, taking a nervous seat alongside Vince on his disheveled bed. He looked down at his lap, finding this situation a little too similar to the one on the couch a few hours ago. And Vince was still half naked.

"Look…" began the younger man, before pausing abruptly, as if that one word had given away the most prized and confidential secret in the entire world. He looked at Howard carefully and the disturbing image from his nightmare- the one of him lying on the ground, a heap devoid of life- flashed through his mind like a demented strobe light. He had to confront him. There was no way he was going to escape that image until he'd talked to him.

But how? What was he going to say? 'I went through your stuff and I've got a few issues with it…'? No, that wouldn't do. Whatever he said, it had to be with perfect tact, with perfect consideration and understanding. Like that straightener metaphor he'd used earlier. Surely he could come up with another of those… maybe about a broken vanity light? Perhaps a low wattage hair dryer or body glitter that just didn't shine. No, Vince decided, those wouldn't work. He had to be direct. Still, how could he manage to be direct and concise **and **sympathetic and caring?

Howard saw the unmistakable look of inner turmoil on his friend's face and asked, "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, just… it was a bad dream, y'know?" Vince offered. Okay, that could work. That could be a nice little segue into the topic.

"You're Vince Noir. You never have bad dreams," he retorted, unconvinced.

"Yes I do!"

Howard rolled his eyes. "That one you had about me playing jazz with Iggy Pop and Stiv Bators doesn't count."

Vince shivered at the memory. "Yeah, it does count! That was terrifyin'… I had to spend weeks with Naboo's otter-in-a-bib picture just to get rid of the anxiety!" _Back to the point, you bumbaclark! _His visage switched to a more sullen expression. "Anyway… I… this one definitely counts, alright?"

"What was it?"

Vince felt himself freeze. He could go on stage and sing in front of hundreds dressed as an electronic hermaphrodite, but when it came to this, he was stricken by the chokes. Great. What was he going to say to that? This had to be handled with the same kind of tact it would have had he not mentioned the dream at all. _Honesty… but sweet honesty… cancel out the bitterness with some emotions… like the clove rock pancakes! _He managed to work out a perfectly balanced metaphor comparing death to clove rocks and himself to pancakes, but one look into the concerned, compassionate eyes of his companion and his rational thoughts were dashed. So, instead, he began crying. Again. Right before throwing his arms around a tense Howard. Again.

"What… what's going on here?" Howard asked uncomfortably. "You've been acting strangely all day. What's gotten into you?" He didn't break the embrace, though, and Vince was thankful for that.

"You can't kill yourself, Howard!" he blurted out, burying his head into his friend's shoulder.

"…Again… what's going on here?"

"You! I read your little contest thing and you can't kill yourself, Howard, you just can't!"

Howard sighed heavily and pried the younger man's weeping form off of him, holding him upright so that he could actually make an attempt at direct eye contact. He felt this called for it. "You really couldn't respect my privacy, could you?" he asked, his words coming out a little harsher than he'd intended.

"I know, I know, I'm a shallow simpleton with no respect for boundaries, I've heard it a million times now! And it's true, okay? I know that. I never meant to push you to the edge like this, Howard, it's just the way I am, and… and you can't do this!" Vince rambled, his makeup visibly smudged and running down his face.

"Woah, woah, woah, Little Man, slow down. I don't know what you're saying." The traces of anger had left his tone; he'd never seen Vince like this before.

"Look!" he cried exasperatedly. "I know I can't say things as good as you can, but you still have to listen to me, alright? 'Cuz it's important." He took a few deep breaths after receiving a nod from Howard, and then continued. "You can't do this. You just can't. What would my life be without you? It wouldn't even be worth livin', Howard, honest! And before you go talkin' down to me for havin' an 'active social life' or whatever it is that you call it, lemme explain somethin' to you." Vince wiped his eyes resolutely, his voice growing stronger. "You think I've got loads of friends, don't you? That I've got no worries 'cuz I've got everyone lined up at my every beckoned call? It's not true.

"Yeah, I go to tons of parties and meet lots of girls and have a bunch of acquaintances. But d'ya think any of them really care about me? Sure, the girls think they do, and sometimes I think I care about them, too, but it doesn't last. We pretend to care 'cuz it's nice to feel loved, y'know? But we all know what we've got isn't caring. They ain't really my friends, Howard. Leroy, Naboo an' Bollo are my friends. These are just my party-goers. When I'm stressed an' wanna forget about everythin', I go to them and get pissed off my tits, 'cuz we're all equally… wait. Forget that last part, alright?

"When I have a real problem, who do I go to? You. Who makes me feel better? You. Who makes me feel better even when I don't say anythin', just by bein' there? You. Remember the whole thing with Harold Boon and…" he shuddered involuntarily, but powered on, "Lance Dior? Remember how messed up I was that the pillock was copyin' me? You didn't understand, but you went off and gave me that genius hat and sang me a little song and even got Gary Numan to give me a shout-out. You think Johnny Rhythm or Vector would ever give me the time of day for somethin' like that? No. They're my party-goers, not my friends. You're not my friend, either. You're my Howard. An' that means about a million times more."

Vince stopped for a while to catch his breath and let his words sink in. Whatever Howard was feeling was concealed by a completely motionless, apathetic facial expression. Vince assumed he was letting the speech register.

Finally, after what seemed like years, Howard broke the silence. "V-Vince, I… I don't know what to say…"

"Yeah, well I do know what to say, 'cuz I ain't finished yet!" A whole new bout of rage was delivered to Vince and he barreled on, even more obstinate than before. "Jesus, Howard, look at you! You're talented and smart and quirky in a way that's kind of cool and you're flippin' gorgeous, Howard! Wait. Forget that part, too. Sometimes I speak without thinkin', y'know? Of course you don't know. Everything you say is always so clever and thought-out. Anyway. You can't waste all that. Everyone wants to be those things! All those party-goers, they have to go out an' party an' get pissed 'cuz they have absolutely zero of the traits that you have, and partyin' gives them character. You don't need that, 'cuz… 'cuz you already got it all. Everyone else in the world is just too fuckin' stupid to see that. And I need you, Howard…" Vince's voice cracked at that last part, weighed down with the crushing truth of it.

"So don't you **ever** dare to think of killing yourself anymore. 'Cuz if you do, I'll be right after ya. **I'll **be the one comin' atcha, like… like the Northern bullet, and I'll make your afterlife so miserable you wish you were still alive." Vince wiped his eyes one more time, wondering when in his rant he'd started up the crying again. He looked down at his Y-fronts and laughed. He could've at least thrown a shirt on, couldn't he? But he let the weak humor pass and said, with all the genuineness in the world, "I love you, Howard."

"Vince, you didn't- well, I… l-love you, too- but you didn't-"

"No!" the younger man wailed, frustrated. "You don't get it, ya dense freak! I don't just love you, but I **love-love **you!" He honestly didn't think he could get through anything more specific.

"W…What d'ya mean?" Howard asked. But his warbling voice and faraway look suggested that he knew exactly what he meant.

"Jesus, how do you not see what I mean?" Vince cried with more than a hint of hysterics. "I'm fuckin' in love with you! I 'ave been, ever since I was first able to put a smile on that dense, generic, mustached face of yours! An' I know you don' feel the same way, I don't expect you to and I don't want you to feel uncomfortable or get all tense and… Howardy, alright? I know you ain't interested in guys an' that you go for those smart girls who like bookmarks and trumpets and pipes and poetry. An' I've accepted that! I know you'll never… requite... requite! Requite! See, Howard? I'm not so stupid, am I? Maybe I prefer pop to jazz, and maybe I need a dictionary by my side when I read your essays, and maybe I don't watch the news or read books by important people, but I'm not stupid! I just wish you could see that, 'cuz then maybe you'd take my feelings a little more seriously." Vince froze again and his hands flew up to cover his mouth. He hadn't meant to say all that.

"Vince," Howard's now steady voice directed. "You didn't read the whole contest entry, did you?"

"No. But I read enough, so don't try to deny that you're all suicidal!"

"Yeah, stay right there, alright? I'll be back." With that, Howard rushed out of the room, leaving Vince to stare after him and worry some more.

_Nice going, idiot. Now you've freaked him out._


	11. I Can't Use Words, They Don't Say Enough

**A/N: And so our story comes to a close. A huge thank you to everyone who's stuck around this long and reviewed, subscribed and/or favorited- you guys make updating fun!- especially to Chalcedony Rivers, Concupiscence66 and Roxas Ignis. **

**Warnings: ...Screw it; if you're reading the eleventh chapter, chances are you won't be offended by any foul language. So no warnings.**

**The chapter title's from 'Today' by Jefferson Airplane.**

ELEVEN

I Can't Use Words; They Don't Say Enough

_Shit. He's not coming back in here._

Vince had been sitting on his bed, thinking of all the things in his prolix confession that he shouldn't have said, for at least fifteen minutes. He'd thought of going out to check on Howard, but that wouldn't end well, would it? It'd only succeed in gaining them both more embarrassment.

And just why the hell did he focus on the fact that Vince hadn't finished the contest entry? There hadn't been that much left to read. It couldn't possibly rectify all the self-hatred and mild nihilism expressed in the preceding paragraphs. He shouldn't have said anything. Nothing at all. He should've just said he was still a little high and it was making him feel weird. And that would've been the extent of it. How he wished he was more like Howard… he was an expert at keeping things bottled up.

He laid himself back down, thinking that if he could just muster up some more sleep, he'd wake up the next afternoon to find Naboo and Bollo back from their stag, and then he and Howard could go on pretending that nothing out of the ordinary had happened, just as they had done after their kiss.

As soon as he'd closed his eyes, however, he was stirred by Howard barging back into the room, holding the infamous paper in his face. "Read," he ordered, seeming annoyed.

"What?" Vince asked, sitting himself up.

"Read! Read… this. The rest of it."

"Alright," the younger man acquiesced, taking the paper from him. He held it out and looked for where he'd left off.

_"He's a resilient spirit, and his life would drastically improve as a result of my absence. How ironic is it, then, that he is the sole reason I am still alive today? I want what's best for him and I realize that that may be the loss of my life. But maybe I'm too selfish to do what's best for him. Maybe I fear that __**I'll**__ miss __**him**__ too much when I'm gone. The psychiatric reasoning behind it all is irrelevant; the important aspect of what I'm saying is that one look at him, at his happy-go-lucky disposition, makes me think, if only for a moment, that life can't be all bad. That there's a light at the end of that cliché tunnel. He __**is **__my light. _

_"Suicide shouldn't be glorified, but the truth of it should be preached to the public. If the average person knew how the mind of somebody plagued by thoughts of suicide worked, maybe they'd find genuine sympathy or even empathy a little easier to manage instead of writing any suicidal soul off as melodramatic or selfish or thoughtless." _If Vince's nightmare had taught him anything, it was how to understand what these plaguing thoughts felt like._ "The most asinine accusation is that those who commit suicide do so for attention. People __**publicly threaten**__ suicide for attention, not commit it. What good would attention do someone when they're dead? The world is a cruel, narrow-minded place filled with cruel, narrow-minded people, and if survivors came together to broaden those minds with the truth about suicide, it could drastically improve the emotional state of the future. Until that latent day, survivors can continue to grow stronger through their past; those left behind by victims of suicide can continue their healing process and hopefully learn something through the tragic mess; and those contemplating it can hopefully find the luck that I have, through someone or something to understand them- whether it be a friend, a musician, or a stress-relieving outlet- and bring them peace. There is always hope for the hopeless somewhere, and we could make it so much easier for them to find if the truth were only understood. Let's shed the preconceived notions."_

Vince stared slack-jawed at what he'd just read. Okay. Maybe it **could** rectify all the self-hatred and mild nihilism expressed in the preceding paragraphs. "Howard, I… I'm so sorry I went through your stuff."

Howard stood there, as if waiting for something more. "**That's **all you have to say? After your big declaration, after learning you're what's kept me here all these years… that's it?"

"I… I'm not good with words, Howard." Vince was absolutely dumbfounded. He was Howard's life-line. Just as Howard was his. They needed each other.

Howard sighed- but to whether it was out of frustration or satisfaction, Vince was oblivious- and sat back down on the bed. "You've got nothing to worry about, alright, Little Man?"

"I… wish I knew what to say."

"You said enough earlier to last you through now, sir."

Vince smiled, almost wistfully. "Sorry about all that. I just… wish I could write like that, you know? I mean, yeah, I can write fun little stories, but I can't ever word emotion right and I can't ever come across smart or brooding like you can. If I could, I'd be able to tell you how reading this made me feel. And then we could both go out on writing adventures… and we'd get our own TV show documenting our crazy literature times! Maybe in claymation, could you imagine that?"

Howard laughed at the familiar distracted excitement, and the sound hit Vince's ears in a beautiful impact that caused all talking to stop. He couldn't tell him how reading that had made him feel because nothing in any dialect of any language could do those feelings justice. And, like he'd said, he wasn't very good with words. But he was good at other things.

Before Vince was able to stop them, his hands shot up and violently pulled Howard's face to his, leading a viciously fervent attack on the other man's trembling lips. At that moment, Vince didn't care that Howard didn't love him in the same way. Howard loved and needed him; that's all that mattered. And until the maverick inevitably came to his senses and pulled them both apart, Vince could at least pretend that they were in love. Pretending was another thing he was good at.

But to his surprise, the maverick never came to his senses. In fact, he moved further away from them. Kicked them out of his mind and abandoned them on the side of the road with some cheap luggage and a bus ticket to somewhere that probably wasn't very safe. Howard pulled Vince's body closer to his own before losing complete control of his lips, moving them against the younger man's to deepen the kiss with the zeal and passion of… well, a real man of action, a feeling that caused Vince's eyes to shoot open in surprise. For once, Howard was allowing a little self indulgence. In this shock, he tore himself away to ask, "What are you doing?"

Howard blushed in embarrassment and fixed his gaze on the floor. "Sorry… was… was I not doing it right?" Vince laughed in response. "You're laughing? You're laughing at me **now**, of all times?"

Vince's face was lit by his exuberant smile. "You just make me laugh. You were doing it very right, if I do say so myself. I was just… you caught me off guard, 's all."

"I've heard a few of those lines from you before."

"Yeah, let's not dwell on the past, alright?"

"Fair deuce, sir."

With that, both men pulled the other toward him, and what this led to far exceeded Vince's little bath fantasy by any means possible. It was real. Howard had always looked at life as something he was cursed with. He'd never asked for it; it was given to him, against his will, and he was forced to deal with it when every other living thing in the universe told him he was unwelcome. It had taken the idea of him dying to prove to him otherwise. Life was a blessing- albeit one in disguise- and only one person was needed to keep that thought staunch in his mind. That wasn't anything new, though. Vince had always been all Howard had needed. He'd always been- and would always be- his light.


End file.
